


intro: roses & hello

by endlesshorizons



Series: so longs and ashes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, BBC Sherlock & ACD Fusion, Fate (or Mike Stamford) is very persistent, M/M, Magical Realism, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshorizons/pseuds/endlesshorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 29, 2010.</p><p>A recently-discharged army doctor walks into a chemistry lab. The world's only consulting detective looks up from the sample he is working on.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Oh, hello, here we go again.</i></p><p> </p><p>Reincarnation AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	intro: roses & hello

"John! John Watson!"

The army doctor turns to see a jovial, chubby man walking up to him, smiling and raising an arm to pat him on the shoulder. Something in his gestures niggles at a memory, but John can't immediately place him. Not surprising; after thousands of years, he can hardly be expected to remember every person he meets.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford," the man clarifies as he puts out a hand for John to shake. "We were at Bart's together."

John frowns and thinks back to his university days, trying to place Stamford as a fellow classmate or resident and coming up short.

"Oh, no, no," Stamford chuckles when he sees his expression, "Not this time - that last time around."

It clicks, finally, in John's brain. Another meeting, over a hundred years ago now, on a different street corner in London.

The other man grins cheekily and jibes, "Yeah, I know, I got fat."

"No, no," John quickly moves to say, even as he thinks back on the last time he had seen Stamford and how he had, indeed, been much skinnier. He had been different in other ways too, a little bit nervous and nowhere nearly as enthusiastic. John couldn't exactly comment on that, though; he himself had changed immensely over the past few cycles, after finding himself in war after meaningless war, always hoping that this time, this will be the time when it is different and something good will come out of it.

"What are you up to, then?" Stamford queries, and John tries not to wince as Stamford's eyes catch on the cane at his side.

What a coincidence, John thinks. A century later, and things are still the same. History repeating, like the old saying goes. Souls really are the most stubborn substance in the universe. He briefly remembers their last conversation and laughs drily.

"Just getting myself sorted," he begins, and tries not to recall what had come out of their meeting the last time.

 

Mike, as Stamford had insisted on being called, stops in front of an organic chemistry laboratory in the main St. Bart's building and reaches for the doorknob. Briefly, John wonders if he runs a side business in pairing up unlikely souls, or if it's just John's luck. It's far more likely to be a practical joke though, John supposes, as he had been thinking since Mike had laughed out loud on the park bench and volunteered to introduce John to yet another potential flatmate. After all, as John realised while they walked down the halls of St. Bart's Hospital, it's even the same date. January 29.

The laboratory door opens and John hobbles in after Mike. He opens his mouth to comment on the new equipment and the shiny, refurbished lab benches, but the words never get to leave his mouth. His eyes are caught by the man standing in the middle of the room, pipette raised mid-air and bending down slightly to give his attention to the sample in front of him.

He is still tall and skinny, but his dark hair is no longer straight and sleeked-back and instead hovers like a halo around his head. His features are different, nose much less sharp and hawklike, but striking all the same. In his impeccable dress shirt and suit and the whitish light of the lab, he looks positively otherworldly, the singularity of his mind now worn as a costume for all to see. John has no trouble recognising the man, doesn't think he would be able to miss him in a crowd of ten thousand, not even if he was now a stout elderly woman or a young red-faced child.

The man looks up from his work, and John catches a brief flash of surprise before his features smooth out in the cool and unreachable veneer he has always worn so well.

"I would ask Afghanistan or Iraq, but given Mike's speciality, I'll go ahead and say Afghanistan."

John briefly wonders what he means about Mike, but that thought is quickly swept aside by others. He swallows, caught in the memories of smoggy London carriage rides, tussles with audacious criminals, and the warm, fire-lit sitting room of their old rooms. He also remembers the last time he had seen the man, all smugness and easy confidence with that ridiculous goatee, the two of them huddled by the darkened beach as their prisoner wriggled in his bonds behind them. He can still see the stars blinking on in the distance, the salty sea breeze carrying their easy conversation as if they had not spent the past five years without exchanging so much as a single letter. He remembers the giddiness, the burst in his chest as they spoke, wondering and hoping against hope, against the memory of the look on Holmes' face when he had announced his retirement, against the clutter of his new cottage the one time John had visited, leaving no room for a companion. He remembers thinking that he was much too old for the hoping and the wanting, had lived far too many lives for unspoken words, but when they had stepped out of Scotland Yard with the German disposed of and Holmes had announced his intention of catching the early train, he had simply nodded and watched him go.

And now, staring up at this new face he has only just seen and his heart already aching in his chest, John wonders if it's worth the effort to go through it over again. Perhaps this soul had tired of him a hundred years ago and he is alone in his reminiscences and regrets; or maybe this is the start of another few decades of blind, one-sided adoration, only to culminate in casual indifference and being left behind yet again. He doesn't think he would be able to bear it.

John thinks about excusing himself, making up some reason or another of having to be somewhere - never mind that he is alone and unemployed in the city, with nowhere to go and no one to meet - but then the other man steps out from behind the lab bench and reaches out a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says with a sardonic quirk of his lips, and already John knows that the battle is lost. He nods and steps forward, turning the sound of the well-loved name in his mind and refamiliarising himself with the curves and edges of a moniker as unique and spectacular as the man himself. It isn't unusual to have the same name over lifetimes, and John admits that he is very fond of this particular one. Souls get attached to bloodlines, to families and estates and nations, and it's not uncommon to be born to the same parents who look at their newborn and know.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and takes the other man's hand. "Dr. John Watson," he replies.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're still here - thanks for reading! I'm intending this to be the first (but not chronologically!) of a new series, with stories going both backwards (AKA ACD verse) and forwards in time. I have quite a few ideas for this universe, both in terms of plot and how this world works, so if this little piece has caught your interest, please subscribe to the series!
> 
> The bit in this fic about Holmes & Watson's last meeting is taken from His Last Bow, chronologically the last of the original Sherlock Holmes stories.
> 
> The titles for both this fic and the series is from a poem by E. E. Cummings, [into the strenuous briefness](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1606/into-the-strenuous-briefness/).
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think so far!


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